


To Live Forever

by Elizabeth (anghraine)



Category: Belgariad/Malloreon Series - David & Leigh Eddings
Genre: Gen, One Shot, POV Original Character, POV Outsider, Sequel, Yuletide 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:32:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anghraine/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Melcene scholar looks for answers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Live Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/gifts).



King Gared, great-great-grandson of Belgarion the Great, ruled in Riva. This much could not be disputed.

There was no question that someone called Belgarion really had lived, and moreover, that he really had been king of Riva, claimed the allegiance of the other Alorn kings and (more tenuously) his brother-in-law in Tolnedra and Salmissra of Nyissa, had demoralized the Grolims throughout all the Angarak kingdoms, and later forged alliances with the kings of the Nadraks and the Murgos, and even Emperor Zakath of Mallorea, his rough contemporary. This much was all copiously documented, and could be verified by a quick visit to Melcena’s archives, without venturing further.

The difficulty, I thought, was the rest. Belgarion was, apparently, a holy figure in the Alorn religion, with the sorcerers Belgarath and Polgara--supposedly his relatives, if they existed at all. Rumour said that he had been a sorcerer himself, that he had wielded a giant flaming sword and Cthrag Yaska, that neither he nor his queen had aged from the day of their coronation until their abdication, that he had slain the god Torak (if he had existed) and, somehow, set up Eriond (if _he_ existed) in his place. Still more miraculously, Angarak had cheerfully accepted this strange, Alorn-looking god, though he--or rather, the reformed Grolims--did not demand universal worship as Torak had. A few Eriondish cults had even sprouted up here in Melcena.

I was not, personally, convinced of the existence or nonexistence of either Angarak god; religious practices, rather than religion itself, interested me. I had written a number of well-received papers on the many variations between the old faith and the new, and a few intriguing consistencies. The structure of the church had not actually changed that much, only the details--crucial details, of course. My research suggested that Thulls had made particularly enthusiastic converts.

After ten years, I had more or less exhausted the possibilities of the Angarak faith. I was, after all, Angarak myself, and if familiarity had not quite bred contempt, the religion of my parents, grandparents, neighbours, friends, and acquaintances could only offer so many possibilities. The archives, too, were overwhelmingly biased towards Mallorean perspectives. Few scholars dared cross into the western kingdoms, where six of the seven gods were worshipped; what little we knew was based on conjecture and the scattered reports of merchants and spies, more interested in trade and politics than ritual.

The world was different now. I couldn’t see why, after all this time, none of my fellow theologians had dared to seek out proper sources--and after ten years at the university, fieldwork in distant lands seemed a prudent idea. With a very small grant from my department, nearly all my private fortune, and two dozen empty books, I sailed east to the west.

My particular interest was in the worship of the most obscure of the gods: Aldur. The handful of Alorn myths I’d acquired suggested that all his worshippers had been immortal. That seemed rather unlikely to me. It was true enough that certain individuals enjoyed extraordinary normal lifespans--many Grolims, and even a former scholar at my university. Yet Grolims, too, died eventually, except for Senji. As for him--well, he had been an alchemist. He must have discovered some compound that extended his life indefinitely. I would have asked him myself, but a disciple of Eriond was not exactly accessible to the likes of me. His Grolims refused to arrange an interview, anyway.

Belgarath, Polgara, and Belgarion, though, were something else entirely. Reports of Polgara's and Belgarath's doings went back thousands of years, with every indication of personal continuity. And all the records of the time implied that Belgarion, too, had worshipped Aldur, if in a quieter way--and if that were true, it made a certain amount of sense. An Alorn king would not proclaim his allegiance to a quasi-foreign god if he wished to keep his throne. Of course, he had abdicated, rather early for kings who generally reigned into their eighties. And then--who knew? He and his wife had certainly left Riva together. They’d periodically accepted diplomatic posts over the next decade, and Queen Ce’Nedra for some time after that. Belgarion, though, had not been seen in Mallorea since his attendance at the funeral of Emperor Zakath. The surviving letters suggested that he had remained for around a month at the request of the empresses—Empress Xoria and Dowager Empress Cyradis. Then, despite his comparative youth, he had never been seen in the east again, and no reports of his presence in the west came, either. Most said that he had retired to live out his final days in peace, in some other country—his birthplace of Sendaria, perhaps, or Algaria (I could never track down the reasons for that), or even Tolnedra, his wife's homeland.

A handful of rumours, though, suggested otherwise. He had been regarded chiefly as the Rivan King and the Godslayer—recognized for his rank and personal accomplishments. Later in his reign, however, some in the west had started to call him the Sorcerer-King. The references were so obscure that none of us could determine whether it was praise or vilification, or even what was meant by it. It was evident, however, that in those later years, descriptions of him as a sorcerer or a wizard seemed to increase. A few gossipy letters from Mal Zeth supposed that he had, instead, joined his relations in the Vale of Aldur.

Improbable as it was, if Belgarath and Polgara had been immortal sorcerers by way of their devotion to Aldur, and if Belgarion had likewise been a sorcerer and a devotee, then there was some possibility that, while those who knew him were all dead, he himself might be alive. To speak with them! My mind reeled at the possibility, even as I firmly told myself that sorcery was likely an illusion and immortality a ruse and who knew if the gods even existed, and even if there were some possibility, Alorns held long grudges. They might not even speak to me.

I landed several weeks later in Nyissa, and dutifully documented what practices I could see. I found little of interest there beyond the occasional talking snake, perhaps because I was sluggish and miserable. The slave trade, I discovered, had been discontinued a number of decades earlier, shortly after it was outlawed in Cthol Murgos, and the economy now seemed to rest largely on pharmacological products. Though technically a theocracy, religion seemed to be largely insignificant; Nyissans bowed to the wishes of Salmissra, queen and high priestess of Issa—and, apparently, giant venomous snake (I felt no need to personally verify this)—more out of fear than piety.

I followed the River of the Serpent into Maragor. There was no sign of the haunting the old Alorns had written about—perhaps they'd merely been drunk, I thought, falling back on comfortable skepticism, or considering the proximity of Nyissa, intoxicated by some more exotic substance. I did see the monastery at Mar Terrin, and spoke to the monks there. They assured me that there had been ghosts, in their grandfathers' grandfathers' lifetimes, and Mara himself had screamed ceaselessly through the centuries in his city.

“It's perfectly safe now,” a monk assured me. I smiled politely, thanked them for their time, asked them to sign the customary forms (unlike the Nyissans, they all seemed delighted at the prospect), and turned down the road to Mar Amon. Things could easily be distorted in five generations, I thought; even a simple prank could—

I felt the breath knocked out of me. Nothing had struck me, nothing appeared—not even a ghost—and I cautiously struggled to my feet. I felt weighed down by something, some kind of power pressing in around my ears, like the faint tingles I'd felt around Grolims, but millions of times, more than millions of times, infinitely greater. Stepping forward, I started through the city, eyes darting around me. I could hear children's voices from somewhere, laughing. In the distance, a man began to sing, and the children's voices grew quieter.

One more corner, and I found myself staring at a tall man, sitting with one little girl in his arms and at least a dozen more children all around him, all in varying stages of sleepiness. His children, I thought, but when I looked into his eyes, I knew he was the source of the power—and that he would not have fathered any mortal child. Maragor did not convince me of the existence of gods; it brought me face to face with one.

I fell to my knees. “Lord Mara,” I said, shaking.

“Shh,” said the God, his face covered with unfathomable contentment. “My daughters will be wroth with thee if the children wake.”

I left quickly after that, turning east. All right. There was at least one god—and if the ancient records were at all accurate, he was one of seven, including Aldur. I passed through a few small towns, added to my notes, replenished my supplies, and turned north, to the place I'd been seeking all along. Please, I thought, at nothing in particular, and tightened my grip on my bags.

When I passed into the Vale of Aldur, I was startled first by its beauty, and then by two soft thumps not far away. I turned, and saw two fair-haired girls in simple tunics approaching me—no, I realized as they came closer, their hair wasn't blonde but white, a glossy silver-white like nothing I'd ever seen before. Their faces were similar, attractive and regular, though the taller of the two had stronger features and blue eyes, while the shorter was green-eyed, with a slightly sharper, more delicate cast to her features.

“Hello,” said the blue-eyed girl.

“We've been expecting you,” her companion added. “You're the Angarak, aren't you?”

“I'm Professor Verata,” I said. “I'm a comparative theologian at the University of Melcena. Are you worshippers of Aldur?”

The two girls looked taken aback.

“Ye-es,” the slight, green-eyed one said. “I'm Beldaran. This is Polvada. We live here. My uncle said it was only a matter of time before you came here.”

“Barged in on us here, he said,” Polvada added helpfully.

“Hush.” Beldaran studied me, and I could almost feel myself being weighed. I had the sudden impression that she wasn't nearly as young as she looked—I looked over at Polvada, who seemed the more girlish of the two, and found her considering me with a sort of mild, remote interest. “Grandfather will know what to do with you. We'll take you to him.”

I followed after them obediently enough. I didn't recognize the names—well, I thought there'd been a Rivan queen called Beldaran, but this was clearly someone else—but they were indicative enough. I tried not to raise my hopes.

Polvada pointed various landmarks out to me as we passed, including “my parents' cottage” and “the Tree, it's the oldest living thing in the world. Be careful about touching it.”

"Is it dangerous?"

"Not exactly, but it can change you." She gave a sudden laugh. "Beldaran had red hair, once, and mine was blonde, properly blonde. It changed when we found the Tree as children."

I took a few notes.

“Are you twins?” I asked absently.

Polvada's back stiffened.

“No. We're cousins,” said Beldaran. “Please don't ask any more questions. Grandfather will answer them—maybe.”

We passed a number of towers—sorcerers' towers, I thought childishly, but so much else had been true, and perhaps—

It was Polvada, restored to what seemed customary cheerfulness, who shouted “Grandfather! She's here!” at a particularly stumpy tower. After a few minutes—and some audible grumbles—a white-haired but vigorous-looking old man tramped through the door of the tower. Just like his granddaughters, he stared at me for a few moments, until I couldn't help but look away.

“Huh,” he said, and turned to the girls. “Why couldn't one of the others do it?”

Polvada laughed. Beldaran contented herself with a slight smile. “Grandmother's hunting, Aunt Pol and Uncle Durnik are at Vo Mandor, Father's visiting the grave in Tol Borune, and Uncle Beldin—”

“Is Uncle Beldin,” said Polvada.

The old man scowled, muttering to himself. “Well, come along then,” he snapped at me, turning away, towards the giant Tree. Beldaran jerked her head after him; Polvada gave me an encouraging smile. I bit my lip and hurried after him.

“We figured you'd get here eventually,” he said abruptly.

“I—I'm not sure how—I'm sorry, I don't think I know your name?”

He glanced over his shoulder, his irritated expression turning roguish. “Oh, I imagine you might have heard it once or twice.”

Yet again, I felt like the breath had been knocked out of my lungs. It wasn't quite as overpowering as Mara, but still— “Belgarath. You're Belgarath the Sorcerer.”

“And you're the Melcene woman asking people about their gods,” he said.

I hesitated, then said, “I'm not Melcene, actually. I just study there.”

“Mallorean?”

“Yes. Mostly Angarak,” I said. “If that's a problem, then I can—”

He snorted. “The war's been over and done with for a long time.”

“Then you're really—you're thousands of years old, aren't you? You've lived through everything.” I didn't even think about reaching for my disclosure agreements, just halted behind him and fixed my eyes on his face.

“Seven thousand years and some,” he said. He paused. “And you?”

“Thirty-two,” I said quickly.

“Hm,” said Belgarath. Belgarath! He was hardly taller than me, and mostly just looked like an old man, without even the crushing aura of power I'd felt around Mara. Not that he was a god, but the next thing to it, really, and— _Belgarath_. “Aldur isn't taking any more disciples, you know.”

“I'm not here to worship anyone,” I said, my voice stiff. It'd gone so much better in the other places. “I'm here to study. There's still so little we know about the west in Mallorea—and you about us, probably.” I winced. “Not you particularly, I mean, but—Alorns.”

His mouth twitched. “You won't find many Alorns here, Professor. What are you really here for?”

A dozen quick answers sprang to my lips. I was used to lying. I hesitated, then discarded them. “Is Belgarion alive?”

“Of course he is,” the old man said impatiently. “Didn't you hear Beldaran? He's in Tolnedra. You came all this way for that?”

I thought back. She'd said her aunt and uncle were in . . . Arendia somewhere? And _Father's visiting the grave in Tol Borune_ —my eyes widened. Belgarion's wife had been a Tolnedran imperial princess, and a Borune.

“She's his daughter? Then Polvada must be—” Aunt Pol and Uncle Durnik, she'd said. I had walked with Polgara's and Belgarion's daughters!

Belgarath, sounding even more irritated, said again, “Why are you here?”

“You're immortal. You all are,” I said. “Did Aldur—do that to you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Belgarath. “We needed the time to complete our task, but we've found the gift elsewhere.”

“If the stories are right, then you did complete it. But you're still here—and all your children live forever, too. There must be a reason.”

“Not all the children,” he said, a flicker of grief crossing over his face.

“You lose some of them, too? Not just everyone else? How do you endure it? How have you all kept sane?” I knew I was being obvious, and I didn't much care. This was the real reason I'd walked over hundreds of miles, whatever I'd told myself. The talking snakes had been interesting and I would never forget Mara, but this was why I was here. If anyone could tell me—

Belgarath's blue eyes were piercing. “Why didn't you talk to Senji?”

“I tried. One doesn't simply visit a disciple of Eriond.”

"A disciple, eh? So that's what he meant." Belgarath met my confused stare and chuckled. "Never mind." He pointed at two of the three ruined towers. “Two of my brothers lived there. They couldn't endure it. That's one choice. My other brothers stay secluded from anyone who's not immortal—most of the time. Polgara and I had our duty. Garion and the girls—we'll, they're young. They're still finding their way.”

I couldn't hide my disappointment. Belgarath grinned.

“Did you think there'd be an easy answer?”

“I came a long way for one,” I said, a little ruefully.

He shrugged. “That was your decision. So's this. Oh, I keep forgetting—don't try to unmake anything, unless you're choosing death. The universe will destroy you if you try. Good luck.”

The Eternal Man walked back to his granddaughters, and I stayed under the Tree.


End file.
